


diplomatic relations (we'd be so good)

by copperwings



Series: we'd be so good (Galra Shiro AU) [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alien Biology, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bitemarks, Biting, Blow Jobs, Brief Mentions of Blood, Galra Shiro (Voltron), Hand Jobs, Keith wants to choke on Shiro's dick and I don't blame him, Lance throws up, M/M, Masquerade, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Scenting, Size Difference, Size Kink, Soulmates, humans should avoid the purple punch, kind of, mildly graphic depictions of violence inflicted on an unnamed character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-04
Updated: 2019-01-04
Packaged: 2019-10-04 08:17:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17301110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/copperwings/pseuds/copperwings
Summary: Keith gives the dancefloor an uninterested once-over, then turns toward the buffet. He spots Coran’s wig over the heads of the surrounding Galra. The wig sways wildly here and there before it suddenly vanishes below the crowd. Keith takes a hasty step to investigate and nearly runs into a wall that appears in his way.He looks up. No, not an actual wall. More like a wall of solid muscle.-Or; The Voltron Coalition has to attend a traditional Galra masquerade ball to celebrate peace. Several things go astray, which puts a strain on the peace negotiations but makes Keith’s night more interesting...(Or;I really just wanted to write a masquerade ball and ripped Galra Shiro, okay so sue me.)





	diplomatic relations (we'd be so good)

**Author's Note:**

> Sooo… I guess this is an AU of an AU? Because I changed the way they met, but as for the rest it’s pretty true to Jotakorium’s hcs listed [on this twitter thread](https://twitter.com/Jotakorium/status/1076025269658370048). The story leans more toward fluff than smut because I’m a perpetually unapologetic sapfest of a person. Also, my fics tend to have a problem of “I tried to write something short but then _plot_ happened and _fluff_ happened and here we are” so whoops for 14k+?  
> -  
> I used the Altean/Galran time units throughout the fic, so as a reminder:  
> tick = “second”  
> dobash = “minute”  
> varga = “hour”  
> quintant = “day”  
> phoeb = “month”

“ _Why_ are we doing this again?” Keith asks, adjusting the ridiculous ceremonial mask that presses into his temples and is sure to give him a headache. The strap around his head is too tight, but if he tries to loosen it the mask starts sliding down his face. He really can’t win with this thing.

“Diplomatic relations.” The mask adds an eerie echo to Hunk’s voice. “We’re celebrating peace.”

“Celebrating peace, by attending a ball while wearing replicas of ancient Galra _war_ masks? Well, I guess that’s a very… Galra thing to do,” Pidge says, pushing her mask up. She rubs her forehead. “This thing is giving me a headache.”

“You and me both,” Allura agrees. She grimaces and pulls strands of hair from under the elastic strap of her mask. “This mask also likes to pull hairs off my scalp. A true Galra invention.” Her voice is dry like a desert with no oasis in sight. “I think Coran is the only one who’s excited about this.”

“I don’t know, I just saw Lance in his suit and mask, making finger guns at the mirror in the bathroom. He seemed ready to woo everyone in sight,” Pidge mutters, rolling her eyes. She peers at her reflection. “Like this outfit is going to fool anybody about my identity. I’m three feet shorter than any of the Galra. Everyone is going to know it’s me behind the mask, so what’s the point of wearing a mask at all?”

“Tradition,” Hunk says. “Traditions are important to folks, and we’re respecting theirs.”

Diplomatic relations are a bitch to uphold, but the shattered factions of the Galra empire are still very much at each other’s throats and any semblance of peace between them is fragile. Maintaining peaceful relations with the Galra they have secured on their side is vital, if they want to acquire the numbers to defeat the rest of the empire.

Hence, they’re required to attend a stupid masquerade ball.

Keith scoffs. The things they do for the universe.

The mask is beginning to press into the bridge of his nose as well as his temples, and Keith sighs deep. He’s going to end up with the headache of the millennia, even if he avoids the traitorous purple punch Coran warned them about.

Lance steps out of the bathroom. “Hello hello, are we ready to show these Galra how to party?”

Keith blinks. “Is that a… _hat_?”

“Or a wig?” Allura tilts her head.

“Or both?” Hunk asks.

The contraption on Lance’s head is very tall and decorative, with tattered feathers and shards of obsidian poking out of it.

Pidge snorts. “Well whatever it is, it’s very, uh, 15th century Venice meets a splatter movie?”

Lance huffs and crosses his arms over his chest. “You guys are just jealous because I got the best costume.”

“Yes, Lance. That’s exactly what this is.” Pidge’s voice drips sarcasm.

Coran steps in, looking even more ridiculous than Lance in his mask and a wig that reaches heights wigs are not meant to reach. He claps his hands excitedly. “Look at you, all suited up like tiny Galra children.”

Pidge grumbles at the mention of children and slams her mask back down. “Let’s just get this thing over with.”

Keith couldn’t agree more. “Yeah. We just need to show up, hang out for a while and then we can leave. After all, the most important part of this visit is the coalition meeting tomorrow.”

Lance grimaces. “Yeah, see, I think that’s just sadistic. Who schedules a meeting for the morning after a party?”

“The Galra.”

“Like I said, sadistic.”

 

-

 

The ballroom ceiling reaches such heights that in the dim light it’s impossible to see. The purple glow from the floating drone chandeliers gives everything in the room a slightly grotesque tint. It paints Galra skin almost blood-red and makes every other skin color appear sickly or bruised.

“Charming,” Pidge mutters, crossing her arms over her chest. “Everyone is decked out in festive clothing and masks that scream bloody murder, and this lighting is not helping the horror-movie look in the least.”

“Tradition,” Hunk sing-songs and jabs an elbow in Pidge’s side. “We don’t want to disrespect our hosts.”

“Vrepit sa,” Pidge deadpans. “I’m gonna go check out the buffet.”

“Avoid the purple punch!” Coran calls after her. “Your head might explode, and that could get messy.”

“Everything looks purple in this light,” Pidge calls back. “Maybe I like to live dangerously.”

Coran holds onto his tall wig as he rushes after Pidge, leaving the rest of them standing awkwardly near the entrance. Hunk mutters something about traditional Galra food and wanders off in the direction where Pidge and Coran vanished. Lance drags Allura away by the arm, and the last Keith sees of them is Lance’s ridiculous headpiece moving among the people on the dancefloor.

Keith sighs. Well, at least he doesn’t need to keep a pretentious smile on his face, because no one is going to see his expression behind the mask. He just has to stick around for a while, make sure the important people know he’s been here and then he can head back to the Lions.

He lets his gaze wander over the room, checking out the security and potential dangers out of habit. Even though they’ve achieved peace in this part of the universe, doing security sweeps is not a practice he’s in a hurry to forget. The Galra empire has been at war for thousands of years; they’re not going to unlearn their ways in a quintant, so it’s good to keep an eye out for trouble. Besides, he knows the vote to join the coalition was far from unanimous, so there’s a good chance some of the Galra attending this ball think the notion of peace is against everything the Galra empire stands for. Keeping his guard up is smart, because the fear of getting stabbed in the side is not so far-fetched under the current circumstances.

Everywhere he looks his gaze meets festive suits and shiver-inducing masks. Keith doesn’t know the story behind the mask tradition, but it seems they are more ceremonial and not meant to conceal identities, because some mask variations barely hide anything. Hunk would probably know more about the history of the masked celebration; he’s always interested in that kind of stuff.

Perhaps Keith should be more interested in Galra tradition—after all, half of his genetic makeup is Galra. Unfortunately, he’s been too busy fighting a war to try and find out about his background. Maybe later, when they’ve achieved real peace in the universe. If that ever happens.

Keith detaches from the wall and paces to the staircase leading down to the dancefloor. At the bottom of the stairs, he stops and looks around. The Galra seem to favor reds and purples in their festive clothing, so the room is a sea of red and purple, dotted with masks of varying levels of gruesomeness. The purple hue of the chandeliers accentuates some colors while hiding others, and in that light the moving mass of bodies on the dancefloor fits Pidge’s description of a horror movie scene to a T.

Keith gives the dancefloor an uninterested once-over, then turns toward the buffet. He spots Coran’s wig over the heads of the surrounding Galra. The wig sways wildly here and there before it suddenly vanishes below the crowd. Keith takes a hasty step to investigate and nearly runs into a wall that appears in his way.

He looks up. No, not an actual wall. More like a wall of solid muscle.

“Shit, sorry.” Keith side-steps to avoid the collision, then grimaces at the non-diplomatic choice of words. “I mean, apologies.” He glances over to the buffet, where Coran’s wig has made a reappearance. No need to rush over, then. He turns back to the man he nearly ran into and has to crane his neck because the face belonging to the wall of muscle is far above his.

The Galra run taller than humans, but this just seems excessive, because Keith’s eyes are barely level with a set of abs. A really, _really_ prominent set of abs, visible through the tight-fitting black fabric covering them. The Galra man is ridiculously ripped, to the point where he looks strong enough to throw Keith across the room one-handed without breaking a sweat.

Keith has a fleeting thought about being thrown around by this guy. It’s not a bad thought. Quite the opposite, actually.

The answer to his fumbling apology comes in the form of a lingering glance from behind a simple black mask. The mask covers everything down to the Galra’s nose but shows the line of his mouth, currently curved in a crooked half-smile with a hint of sharp teeth. Above the mask, a tousle of white hair falls down to eyebrow level, but it’s the ears that catch Keith’s attention. They’re wide-set and very cat-like, and as Keith watches they perk up, attentive.

Keith feels like he’s being measured but he doesn’t know for what purpose. Knowing the Galra, it may just as well be an assessment of the placement of his ribs to know just where to sink the knife, but it doesn’t feel like that’s the case. He’s felt this kind of searing burn before, usually when he’s being checked out for purposes completely different than using him as a knife block.

Another Galra steps close and whispers something, and the burning gaze of the black-masked man releases Keith. As he walks away, he turns to give Keith one last lingering look over his shoulder.

Black Mask definitely doesn’t want to use Keith as a knife block. Unless that is meant as a euphemism.

 

-

 

It’s not that Keith is _following_ Black Mask; he just happens to be at the same places a lot. It’s a small ballroom.

Okay, it’s a goddamn huge ballroom, but whatever. Keith needs to keep alert, in case something happens. And maybe that includes keeping an eye on Black Mask as well as making sure his fellow Paladins are still accounted for.

For once Keith is thankful for Lance’s sense of style, because the headpiece makes him easy to spot in the crowd. Every now and then he makes sure Lance is still on the dancefloor, then turns around to spy Coran’s wig somewhere near the buffet. Allura will keep Lance out of trouble, and Coran will keep Pidge and Hunk out of trouble. That is, unless Coran is getting them into _more_ trouble, because sometimes that happens too, but it’s not like Keith needs to babysit. The Paladins can handle themselves. Most of the time.

Keith feels he’s being watched, but when he turns he sees no eyes on him. Black Mask stands a small distance away with his back turned to Keith, and the outfit he’s wearing clings and hugs in all the right places. Keith’s eyes scour the broad shoulders, the line of his spine down to the swell of his ass before flitting away. Discretion is everything, as it’s probably not considered sensible diplomacy to get caught ogling a random ass in the middle of the masquerade.

However, he can’t stop his eyes from following the ass as it moves across the room and disappears around the corner.

Keith paces the length of the ballroom, holding a decoy glass of punch. He doesn’t sip from it, because the smell alone is enough to make his eyes water. In addition, the smoke evaporating from the punch doesn’t make it any more inviting to try. Being half-Galra, he could probably withstand whatever is in it, but he decides not to try his luck. The stupid ceremonial mask gives him enough of a headache as it is, he doesn’t need to add Galra cocktails into the mix. He spots the corridor leading out of the ballroom and steps through the doorway.

The hallway goes straight down and then makes a sharp turn to left. When Keith bears around the corner, Black Mask is leaning on the wall, waiting. He tilts his head, and the smile he gives Keith is sharp like the knife he’s casually flipping in his hand.

 _Busted_. Keith grimaces, grateful that the mask hides his expression.

“You’re following me.” Black Mask detaches from the wall, and the knife flips around in mid-air again, ending up with the blade pointed at Keith.

There’s no point in denying, so Keith remains quiet, twirling his punch in the glass. The hallway is void of other people, and Keith realizes with a lurch of his stomach that he’s been led here like cattle. He wonders if the smoking punch is poisonous enough to blind someone if he needs to make a defensive move.

Black Mask steps into Keith’s personal space and leans down, bringing the knife to Keith’s face. He taps the chin of the mask with the sharp tip, and Keith holds his breath, ready to ditch the punch and summon his bayard if needed. Weapons are not allowed at the ball, but as evidenced by the knife in his face it’s not like the Galra are obeying their own rule.

“Stop. Following. Me.” Black Mask punctuates every word with a minuscule tap of his knife on Keith’s mask. The clinking sound echoes inside, vibrating against Keith’s temples. Black Mask’s purple eyes are narrowed, staring at Keith for a heartbeat longer before withdrawing.

Keith swallows as the knife retreats and vanishes into a hidden pocket near Black Mask’s hip. It’s impressive how clothing that tight can hide anything, let alone a knife of that size.

Additionally, being held at knifepoint shouldn’t be so much of a turn-on.

Black Mask brushes past Keith, returning to the ballroom, and Keith exhales as his eyes follow the retreating figure. A looming sensation of warmth rises from the pit of his stomach, and he wants to slap himself. He just got threatened by a guy twice his size, and instead of feeling frightened he feels ready to pop a boner.

 _Really, brain?_ He breathes deep in the empty hallway before heading back to the party.

He could easily leave; he’s spent more than enough time at the party to satisfy the requirements for politeness, but he sticks around nonetheless. His eyes keep following Black Mask like the Galra man is equipped with a beacon that’s calling out to Keith.

Keith averts his eyes whenever Black Mask turns toward him in the room, but he can feel that burning gaze on him like a physical touch. It makes him hot and uncomfortable, for all the wrong reasons. Or maybe they’re the right reasons, depending on how one looks at it. Perhaps upholding diplomatic relations doesn’t include getting rawed by a gigantic Galra, but Keith finds himself thinking that he wouldn’t be terribly against that kind of diplomacy.

Keith leans on the wall, his untouched glass of punch still smoking in his hand, and as his eyes continue sweeping the room he notices he’s not alone in following his target.

Another masked Galra stands positioned nearby wherever Black Mask is. At first Keith thinks he’s an assistant or a bodyguard, but neither of them acts like they know each other. It might be a decoy, but it’s still suspicious.

Keith turns to see Coran’s wig dancing wildly near the center of the floor, accompanied by Lance’s headpiece and flashes of Allura’s white hair. Another glance toward the buffet proves that Pidge and Hunk are lingering near the punch bowl, casting suspicious looks at the smoking liquid. One of them is going to end up trying it at some point, and Keith regrets he won’t be there to witness the results.

However, the majority of his curiosity is directed elsewhere. It’s not only that Black Mask is hot, but he’s being shadowed for whatever reason. Keith wants to know what’s up with that.

When he turns, Black Mask is wading through the sea of people in the room, and he’s still being followed. Keith furrows his brow and circles around the room, trying to be inconspicuous about his movements.

Black Mask knows he’s watching. Keith can almost feel the amused roll of eyes from across the room as Black Mask pauses at the door, then vanishes outside to the balcony. It’s like an invitation as well as a threat. Keith is willing to respond to either one.

Moments later, Keith discards his punch on a side table and steps outside, inhaling deep. Fresh air feels nice after the stuffiness of the ballroom, even if the effect is muffled by the mask covering his face. The balcony stretches along the entire length of the curved wall, with a view over the city down the hill. A few other people are admiring the blinking lights, but it’s a lot less crowded out here. Keith stays in the shadow of the pillars, making his way along the curve of the wall.

He’s near the end of the balcony when Black Mask’s voice greets him. “I told you to stop following me.” The voice is slightly amused but also annoyed, like maybe he thinks Keith is an insect that needs to be squashed.

“So you did, but did you really mean it?” Keith pulls his mask off and steps out of the shade to where Black Mask is standing in wait, knife ready. The wind rising from the valley plays with his white tuft of hair, tossing it about, and his mask accentuates his steely glare. His ears are pushed low against his head, indicating annoyance.

“I did.” His mouth says one thing, but the way he’s eating Keith with his eyes tells another story.

 _Flirting, now with knives_ , Keith thinks, half-amused and half-irritated. Is this what his life has become?

A sudden movement from behind Black Mask catches Keith’s eye, and he realizes two things at the same time. One, the shadow following Black Mask is _not_ a bodyguard, and two, Black Mask is too concentrated on him to notice the attack coming from behind.

Keith sees the flash of a blade and moves without thinking. He drops his mask on the ground and runs directly at Black Mask’s knife, ducking at the last moment to slide between his legs. As soon as Keith is behind him, he slaps his hand on his thigh, summoning his sword right as he comes face-to-face with the assailant charging at Black Mask. The blade of his bayard springs out, finding its target in the attacker’s side with a sickening crunch.

The assassin crumples to the ground with a wailing grunt from under his mask.

Keith pulls his blade free, aware that his move has left his back vulnerable to Black Mask. He’s expecting to pay the full price for it in a matter of ticks, but the stab he’s anticipating never comes. Instead, Black Mask pushes him aside, steps past him and rips off the assailant’s mask.

A trickle of blood runs down the attacker’s jaw, and as he coughs more blood gushes out of his mouth. Even in throes of death, his stare is vehement and unwavering. “Marmora scum.”

Keith follows the line of his gaze, surprised to see it landing _beside_ him instead of _on_ him. Black Mask works with the Blades too?

“Who sent you?” Black Mask demands. He grabs the attacker by the front of his suit and shakes. The dying man tosses around limply like a ragdoll, spewing out more blood from the force of the violent movement.

“You will never find peace with these weaklings. You’re all fools.” He gasps and coughs, bloody air bubbles sliding down his chin. “Victory… or death.” The attacker pushes a button on his suit, and Black Mask growls in annoyance.

It’s a suicide bomb. Keith recoils, ready to take cover from the blast, but before he can move the body of the bleeding assailant flies overhead, tumbles over the balcony railing and starts the long descent toward the ground.

A few ticks later, an explosion rumbles from below, shaking the balcony floor. Keith rushes to peek over the railing, only to receive a pulse of scorching heat against his face as the blast wave travels up the wall.

Beside him, Black Mask looks down at the remnants of the attacker raining across the street. His white tousle of hair gets messed up from the blast wave, leaving him looking disheveled.

It’s like sex hair, only from an explosion. It shouldn’t look so hot, but it _does_.

Keith looks away and wants to file a formal request for a new brain, because the current one is clearly not operating within acceptable parameters. There was an assassination attempt, and all Keith can think of is how hot Black Mask looks after an explosion.

 _Get a grip_ , he scolds himself.

Black Mask dusts his hands, grimacing at the blood on them.

Keith glances behind him, where only a small pool of blood and his discarded mask provide evidence of the assault. “You’re with the Blades?” he asks, trying to get his stupid brain back on track.

Black Mask doesn’t reply. He bends down to scoop Keith’s mask from the ground and tosses it at him. Keith catches the mask and then freezes as he hears noises. The sound of curious voices and approaching footsteps grows louder, carrying around the curve of the wall. The nearby guests must have heard the explosion and are on their way to investigate, and this is starting to look like a very bad place to be found in right now, considering the fragile diplomatic relations and all. Keith slaps the bayard on his thigh and tucks the mask under his arm, ready to vanish from the balcony one way or another. He will scale the wall if he needs to.

However, before Keith knows what’s happening he’s picked up and carried to the shadows of the closest pillars.

Strong hands—one purple-clawed, one metal—push him against the pillar, and a pair of gleaming eyes pierce into him. Black Mask brings his mouth almost to his ear and whispers, “You were never here. You heard nothing, you saw nothing, got it?”

The low voice against his ear sends a shiver down Keith’s spine. He nods wordlessly.

The lips are on his ear again, teeth grazing his earlobe. “Oh, and thanks. You saved me.”

Then Keith is pushed through a door he didn’t even know was there. He stomps through a dimly lit hallway and finds himself in the main hallway outside the ballroom. Black Mask is nowhere to be seen, but Keith still feels a slight throb on his earlobe where sharp teeth brushed his skin. He touches the sensitive spot and crams his mask back on to hide the flush of heat rising to his cheeks.

Keith decides he’s had enough of diplomatic relations for one night. He tracks down Lance to let him know he’s leaving, then skulks out of the ballroom. He doesn’t know what happened to Black Mask, but as he walks away from the ballroom, the events of the night replay in his head in a loop that doesn’t provide any answers.

Who is Black Mask? The assassin called him _Marmora_ _scum_ , so he must be with the Blades. As far as Keith knew, there were no Marmora infiltrators on this planet, but then again, he doesn’t know every member on their roster and they don’t exactly tell him all their plans.

But why would the Blades have an operator here? This planet is with the coalition now, no need for a _coup d’état_.

 _They’re not unanimously with the coalition_ , Keith reminds himself. The peace is still hanging by a thread, and he can only hope the coalition meeting in the morning will strengthen the bond between them.

Keith walks down a quiet hallway leading to the hangar where their Lions are waiting. He has an uncanny feeling of being followed, which is confirmed true when he hears a footstep behind him. Not multiple footsteps, but just _one_ , which leads him to believe he was meant to hear it.

Keith twirls around in mid-step and startles as he finds himself almost toe-to-toe with Black Mask. He looks up. “You know, for a gigantic guy you know how to walk quietly.”

Black Mask laughs, and it’s ridiculously cute how his ears move along with the laughter. “And for a tiny human, you’re pretty good at stabbing people.”

“Half,” Keith corrects.

“What?”

“I’m only half-human. The other half is—”

“Galra.” Black Mask’s ears perk up like he’s solved a mystery that bothered him. “So that’s what I smelled on you.”

Keith swallows. “Uh. Yeah.”

He knows the Galra have scent-bonds and other stuff, which is on his list of _Things He Should Probably Learn About His Heritage_ , but like the history and traditions, it’s been buried under this bigger concern called _Oh Shit We’re In The Middle Of An Intergalactic War_.

“I’m Keith, by the way,” Keith says, directing the conversation to something other than scenting and hormonal bonds.

“The Black Paladin; I know.” Black Mask nods. “I’m Shiro.”

“Shiro.” Keith tests the name and likes how it rolls off his tongue. “So are you—what the assassin said you were?”

Shiro’s ears swish, nervous, and he glances over his shoulder. “Not here,” he mutters, tugging Keith down the corridor by the arm. Shiro’s fist closes easily around Keith’s upper arm, and it’s shameful how distracting that is.

Shiro pushes him into a shallow dent in the hallway wall, checking the surroundings before leaning in. “We need to find a safe place to talk,” he says in a low voice. “This hallway isn’t it.”

Keith stares at his lips, feeling the pressure where Shiro’s fingers curl around his arm with a vice-like grip. His brain is issuing directions at him in a chanted chorus of, _you don’t know him—do not invite him to your Lion, do not invite him to your Lion, do not—_

If Keith had a superpower, it would be his amazing skill in disregarding directions. “We could, uh, go to my Lion?”

They walk down to the hangar side by side, and it’s odd going because Keith either needs to run to keep up with Shiro’s pace or Shiro needs to take small steps and slow down to allow them to walk abreast. It takes a moment to settle on a pace that’s most convenient for both.

Keith stares straight ahead and does _not_ think about what it would be like to have Shiro carry him in his arms, or over his shoulder. He recalls the stupefying ease with which Shiro hoisted him off the ground and set him in the shade of the pillar like he weighed nothing. But there’s this thing called dignity, and Keith plans holding onto his for as long as he can. Or at least for the next few vargas.

The cockpit of the Black Lion has always felt very spacious, but Shiro’s presence shrinks it to a closet-sized container where everything, including Shiro himself, is suddenly very close.

After realizing he can’t stand without bending his knees or his back, Shiro sits cross-legged on the floor and then strips off his mask, allowing Keith to get the first good look of his face. The white flop of hair at the front is contrasted by his fuzzy black undercut and his purple ears move along with his expressions. The ears look very fluffy and Keith has to refrain from asking if he can pet them. A jagged scar runs across the bridge of Shiro’s nose, and he rubs it with a low growl. His ears twitch in annoyance as he drops the mask on the floor.

“This thing gives me a headache.”

“Ah, so it’s not a bug, it’s a feature,” Keith mutters, rolling his eyes. His own mask is somewhere decorating the inside of a trashcan. Hopefully they weren’t expecting those back.

Shiro lounges on the floor, stretching his arms up. His fingertips almost reach the ceiling even when he’s sitting, and Keith follows the stretch of his muscles. His mouth suddenly feels very dry, and he coughs, looking away.

Keith retreats to the pilot’s seat, leaning on the backrest and crossing his arms over his chest in a futile attempt to seem nonchalant. Even with Shiro all the way at the back of the cockpit, it feels like he’s all up in Keith’s space. Well, Keith invited him here, so whose fault is that?

“So, you’re with the Blades?” Keith asks, returning to the reason why they’re here.

“I am.” Shiro snorts and his ears twitch. “Good job almost getting me busted by acting all suspicious and following me around all night.”

Keith glares at him. The assassin clearly knew who Shiro was even without Keith following him around, so blaming Keith for blowing his cover is just unnecessary and rude.

“I didn’t know you were a Blade, and besides you’re the one who started—” Keith cuts himself off. He can’t start a conversation with a gigantic Galra with an accusation of said gigantic Galra eye-fucking him across the ballroom. “You threatened me with a knife,” he finishes flatly.

“To get you to _stop_ following me,” Shiro growls. “Instead it just made you more persistent. What, you into knifeplay or something?” His teasing smirk reveals a hint of teeth.

“That’s beside the point,” Keith grits out. “And did you forget that if it weren’t for me, that douche would have stabbed you?”

Shiro’s ears pull flat against his head, and he lets out an irritated huff. “No, if _you_ weren’t there I would have seen him coming. It’s your fault for being so distracting.”

Keith scoffs and detaches from the pilot’s seat, taking a step toward Shiro while his fingers curl into fists. “ _I’m_ distracting? Look who’s talking.”

 _Are we really arguing about which one of us got more distracted by the other?_ Keith’s brain tries to interject. _Because that sounds like a compliment suffering from a really bad identity crisis. It also makes it sound like we’re about five ticks away from sucking face._

The cockpit falls into silence that’s only broken by their uneven breathing. Shiro’s mouth is slightly open and his eyes are locked on Keith’s. His ears stop swishing and perk up, expectant. Keith takes another step and then stops dead on his tracks, because he realizes he’s well on his way over to Shiro, and they _are_ honest-to-god about five ticks away from sucking face.

It must be the goddamn Galra hormones, the ones Keith knows very little about. He bites the inside of his cheek and takes one more step forward. He knows he shouldn’t; that it’s a bad, _bad_ idea, but he really wants to drive Shiro’s shoulders flat against the wall and kiss him with bruising force. He wants to climb on Shiro’s lap and grab him by the ears and fucking _devour_ him until the very last oxygen molecule in his body is depleted.

Shiro sniffs the air, and at this proximity Keith sees the exact moment his pupils blow so wide that it looks like his eyes turn into black holes. Keith could sink into those black holes for the rest of eternity; in fact, he wouldn’t mind it one bit. Screw the coalition, screw the intergalactic war, they don’t need him—

“If you could _not_ do that, that would be great,” Shiro grunts in a strained voice.

Thing is, Keith has no idea what he’s doing. He spreads his hands, confused. “Do what?”

Shiro’s eyes stay glued to him. “Having a conversation gets increasingly difficult with your scent floating around like this.”

Keith blinks and sniffs the air cautiously. He doesn’t notice anything out of the ordinary.

“A conversation? More like an argument.” _With compliments. Weird, weird compliments._

Shiro scoffs. “I’m not arguing, I’m just telling you to keep your cute human nose out of this, it’s a Blade matter that doesn’t concern you.”

Cute human nose? The _nerve_ of this guy.

Keith snarls. “Fine, so next time I won’t be there to save you when you’re too busy ogling the next guy coming your way to notice someone is trying to stab you.”

Shiro looks like Keith just insulted his mother. For such a massive guy he is very agile, because he moves from his cross-legged position to crouching seamlessly in two ticks flat, and his stance reminds Keith of a tightly coiled spring, ready to pounce.

“I don’t _ogle_ guys coming my way.” Shiro’s voice is a low growl. “You’re the one who’s throwing your scent around like you want to gather a lover for each finger.”

How did their conversation—or argument, whatever—turn from the Blades mission to _lovers_ in a matter of ticks?

“You didn’t seem to find it so offensive earlier when you were checking me out,” Keith jabs.

Shiro narrows his eyes and his ears lay flat against his head. He reminds Keith of a panther, crouching in wait before jumping on its prey. He looks dangerous. He also looks hot, in a dangerous kind of way.

For a moment, neither of them moves. Keith stands frozen in the crossfire of instructions his brain and his body are issuing. They are not agreeing on anything right now, because one is telling him to get the hell out of dodge and the other is telling him to jump Shiro and climb him like a tree.

The tension between them builds up and then shatters when Keith’s wrist communicator beeps with an incoming call. Keith startles and looks down to his wrist, and Shiro’s stance relaxes and his ears floof back up. He drops from his crouch to a knee, looking down at the floor and running his fingers through his hair.

 _“Keith, are you there?”_ Allura’s voice calls through the comm.

Keith takes three steps back and collides with the backrest of the pilot’s seat. He slumps against the seat, breathing in deep before replying. “I’m here, what’s up?”

 _“Emergency coalition meetup,”_ Allura says. _“Apparently there was an explosion and someone was killed at the party.”_

Keith exchanges a look with Shiro, who shakes his head in a clear indication that Keith shouldn’t reveal what he knows. “What, really?” Keith asks, trying to sound like this is news to him.

 _“Yes! The situation is very fragile. We need to convince our hosts that this was not our doing. It’s not looking good.”_ Allura sounds worried. _“Meet us at the conference room.”_

“I’ll be there soon.” Keith shuts the connection and looks up at Shiro. “Why did I just lie to Allura?” he asks, not sure if he’s directing the question to Shiro or himself.

“I’ve been working undercover here for a long time,” Shiro says. “Even if there’s peace between the Galra and the coalition _now_ , what do you think the Galra will do if they find out I’ve been spying on them for phoebs _before_ the peace negotiations?”

Keith swallows. The meaning behind the words is clear as day.

Shiro rubs his left ear thoughtfully. “I need to find out who sent the assassin, see if my cover is truly blown. Either way, it could get messy.”

“I won’t say anything about this.” Keith motions between them. “We are on the same side, after all. Might as well work together.”

Shiro smiles. “Might as well.” He gets up so quickly he nearly bangs his head on the ceiling and then stands with bent knees as he casts one last glance at Keith. “Best hurry to your meeting. I’ll see you soon.”

Keith watches him leave the hangar through one of the screens—a tall figure striding across the floor in his skin-tight clothing. What a confusing night. Keith needs a few ticks to compose himself before heading out to meet the chaos that is most certainly waiting for him in the negotiation room.

He glances at the time on his comm. Looks like the meeting that was supposed to begin in the morning has been moved up due to the explosion.

Keith sighs. “Just what I wanted to do at three in the morning, local time.”

 

-

 

When Keith gets to the negotiation room, it’s chaos as he expected. Across the negotiation table, people are yelling at each other, someone is waving a tablet while furiously pointing at the screen, and a mean-looking Galra woman has stabbed her knife into the center of the table where it stands like a beacon of hopelessness in the sea of shouted arguments.

What Keith _didn’t_ expect was Shiro, sitting beside some Galra leaders on their side of the table like he’s been there all night. Aside from the corner of his mouth lifting a just a fraction when Keith walks in, he behaves like he’s never seen Keith in his life. It’s hard to ignore his placement at the table, though, as it’s directly across from the seat that’s been left empty for Keith.

Keith spares him the tiniest suspicious glance from the corner of his eye as he slides into his seat beside Allura.

Allura’s ceremonial mask is lying face down on the table, her arms are crossed over her chest and she’s at least five inches taller than she was when Keith last saw her in the ballroom. She doesn’t usually use shapeshifting as an intimidation tactic, so the situation must be serious.

On Allura’s other side, Pidge’s fingers tap-tap-tap the screen of her tablet at a pace Keith could never imitate. Behind Pidge’s chair, Coran and Hunk are bent over Lance, who lies on the floor in a heap of clothes, his mask gone and the headpiece askew.

“What happened to Lance?” Keith asks from the corner of his mouth, eyeing the Galra leaders across the table. It can’t be serious because Lance is here, and the Paladins are acting pretty calm considering the overall situation.

Allura looks annoyed. “He thought it would be impressive if he tried the purple punch.”

Keith glances at Lance, who is sporting a slightly greenish hue across his cheeks. “Was it?”

“Quite the opposite.”

“I see. So what’s the situation? What do we know?” Keith tries to concentrate on Allura’s voice, but his eyes keep flitting across the table, where Shiro is talking to one of the Galra leaders in a low tone. His ears flick like he knows Keith is watching, and Keith spots a quick glance aimed at him.

“If you could concentrate,” Allura says, slapping a hand on his shoulder. “This is important. The fragile peace we have achieved is at stake.”

Keith startles. “Uh. Yeah, of course.”

He tries to keep a neutral face when Allura explains that there was a scuffle on the balcony, someone was killed in an explosion and they only know the dead person was a Galra because the pieces they found below the balcony were just enough to identify the deceased as that.

Keith grimaces. “They think we did it,” he mutters. “Are they stupid? Why would we kill a Galra and risk everything when we’re the ones who wanted peace in the first place?”

Allura spreads her hands. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell them.”

Keith wishes he could tell her what he knows. Although it isn’t much, knowledge that the assassination attempt was aimed at a Marmora spy might make the coalition’s task easier. But that would require exposing that he knows there is a Marmora spy here, and that would derail the negotiations even further. His best chance is hoping that the coalition negotiators know what they’re doing.

A coalition representative stands up in the middle of the chaos, requesting to speak, and after a few ticks the room falls into a begrudging silence. She begins talking about the peace they have acquired and the good it’s doing across the universe, including the Galra factions that have joined the efforts to bring peace to the universe. The Galra leaders look disgruntled, but they’re listening, so it’s a good start.

Over the next few vargas it becomes clear that despite the unfortunate explosion, peace negotiations are still on the table—and with that knowledge Keith becomes increasingly more tired and distracted. He leans his chin on his hands, blinking as he tries to concentrate on the terms and conditions of peace they’re hammering down. Why do they even need him here? He’s a fighter pilot—the Black Paladin—and he knows zilch about drafting peace agreements. That’s what they have the coalition negotiators for.

Across the table, the Galra look annoyingly alert despite the late varga. Keith’s eyes slide over to Shiro, who is rubbing his ear and looking like he’s listening to the conversation intently.

He’s _not_ listening to the conversation, at least not at full capacity, because even in his dead-tired state Keith spies the looks Shiro casts his way every now and then.

There’s also the fact that Shiro’s foot reaches just far enough under the table to rub slow circles on the side of Keith’s calf, and he’s been doing that for the past several dobashes. Keith narrows his eyes. A small smile plays on Shiro’s lips while he watches the coalition leader who’s speaking, like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

If Keith thought he was distracted before, that’s nothing compared to the current situation. He sits absolutely still, logical mind arguing against his body that wants one of two things: one, to crawl under the table and cling onto Shiro’s thigh, or two, climb over the table and plant himself on Shiro’s lap.

Neither of these options is viable in the middle of peace negotiations.

Logically speaking, neither of these options should even _occur_ to him during peace negotiations, but here he is, wanting to abandon dignity and reason for this stupid gigantic Galra who keeps fucking with his head in several different ways. It’s irritation, curiosity and desire, all mixed up in his head and making his life difficult.

Keith excuses himself to the bathroom, even though pulling his leg away from Shiro’s foot leaves him feeling cold. He walks across the room and steps outside the door, inhaling deep.

This late at night, the hallways are empty aside from a few Galra sentries on patrol. Keith stomps across the hall into the bathrooms and smacks his fist into a stall door to push it open. He’s not sure if he’s just tired and annoyed or if the queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach is anticipation.

Whatever it is, he doesn’t bother feigning surprise when he steps out of the stall and finds Shiro leaning on the wall beside the door, waiting. When Keith stops to assess the situation, Shiro extends his hand to lock the door without breaking eye contact. The gesture could be interpreted as threatening, but that’s not what Keith reads in Shiro’s eyes.

Keith walks right into his personal space and looks up. “Can you fucking stop?”

Shiro’s ears perk up as he grins. “Stop what?”

Keith makes a vaguely irritated gesture with his hands. “Whatever this is you’re trying to do. We’re in the middle of peace negotiations, and I’m out there lying to my team about what happened on the balcony. Oh, and then you sneak your damn foot to my side of the table, even though I’m not supposed to know you.” _I’m not supposed to want you either, but here we are._ “Hell, I _don’t_ know you. I’ve talked to you for a whole of fifteen dobashes in my life and during that period of time you’ve threatened me with a knife, slammed me into a pillar, complained about my scent and called my human nose cute.” What the hell is he supposed to make of that?

Shiro’s soft laugh sounds like a purr, low in his throat. He tilts his head and looks down at Keith as if measuring said nose. “Well, it _is_ cute.”

Keith silently counts to three. Then he punches Shiro in the abs, mostly because it’s the easiest spot for him to reach.

Keith doesn’t bother holding back the force of his punch, but Shiro doesn’t even flinch. Instead he laughs, grabbing Keith by the wrist, and five ticks and a lot of blurry motion later he has Keith pinned against the wall, breath ghosting near his ear. Keith’s shoulder blades dig into the cold metal wall, and it almost hurts except it doesn’t, and he finds he _likes_ it. Likes being tossed around like a ragdoll, likes being manhandled like he’s weightless.

He will go to his grave before admitting it.

“You also smell good.” Shiro’s voice is leaning more and more toward a purr. “I could smell you across the negotiation table, and I wanted to—” He cuts himself off, but the meaning behind his words is not difficult to decipher.

Keith hates his body for betraying him like this, because damn if his hips aren’t trying to detach from the wall to grind against Shiro.

“What,” Keith breathes, trying to resist his traitorous hips, “what is this? This _thing_.” He doesn’t have the words to explain this strange sense of attraction like he’s never felt before—like droplets of mercury on a plate, seeking each other and merging into one. Everything comes together, everything _fits_ , and he can’t wrap his head around it.

“We match.” Shiro’s playful smirk gives way for a more serious expression. “You feel it too. This connection, like a string pulling us together.” He leans in, almost nose to nose so Keith can feel his hot breath on his lips. “We’d be good together. _So_ good.”

There’s that fucking _purr_ again, making Keith’s legs feel like someone sliced the tendons behind his knees with surgical precision. At this point it might only be Shiro’s iron grip that holds him in an upright position.

_Goddamn Galra hormones._

Keith stares into Shiro’s eyes, stubborn. “Do I get a say in this?”

Shiro’s grip on his shoulders loosens a fraction. “Of course you do.”

“Good. Then fucking kiss me already.”

Some people say that kissing feels like floating, and Keith thinks that’s sappy as fuck. Kissing is kissing, meaning it’s hot and wet and kind of gross if you think about it too long, but it’s also pretty damn amazing. He’s kissed people before, and it’s never included any floating sensations whatsoever.

This time he does feel like floating, but it’s only because his feet _literally_ leave the ground when Shiro’s mouth finds his. Shiro hoists him up and holds him against the wall, feet dangling above the floor. Shiro’s metal arm hooks under Keith’s knee, holding him up, and the notion of climbing him like a tree is starting to look more like reality instead of just a strangely appealing daydream.

Shiro’s lips are warm and demanding, and his teeth sharp against Keith’s lower lip. The way their tongues move together is familiar and new at the same time. Familiar, because the act of kissing is pretty universal with mouths that resemble each other; but new, because everything about Shiro is bigger than what Keith is used to—and that includes his tongue.

Keith wonders what the tongue would feel like in other places and then pushes the thought away like it burns him. Nope, they’re not doing _that_ in the bathroom while the coalition people and a bunch of Galra representatives are on the other side of the door.

Hell, they shouldn’t be doing _this_ in the bathroom either, but instead of trying to pry himself free from the kiss, Keith slides his hands up Shiro’s neck, to the back of his head to pull him closer. The undercut is short-buzzed at the nape of his neck but grows longer toward the crown of his head. Keith grabs the longer hairs between his fingers, tugging, guiding Shiro’s mouth where he wants it. Shiro allows the manipulation of Keith’s hands, smiling against Keith’s lips. It’s a playful tug-of-war fought over control, and Shiro is letting him win. Keith likes to have at least a semblance of control, even though it’s quickly become apparent that Shiro could fold him into a double-knot pretzel if he wanted to.

From the back of Shiro’s head, Keith’s hands move to his ears, curious. The texture is like smooth velvet, and he feels them twitching under his fingertips. His fingers map the surface, stopping to examine a few ragged scars that have left Shiro’s ears tattered and uneven. Keith sucks on Shiro’s tongue while he strokes Shiro’s ears, and Shiro’s free hand snakes under the hem of his shirt, sliding over his side in a controlled graze of nails.

If this keeps going there’s going to be a problematic situation in Keith’s pants pretty soon.

A low rumble rises from Shiro’s throat, louder than before. Keith’s fingers stop at a small notch on Shiro’s left ear and he turns his head to the side, pulling away from Shiro’s mouth just enough to whisper, “Are you… _purring_?”

“Shut up.” The noise cuts off and Shiro pushes closer, forcing Keith into a tighter fit between his body and the wall.

“Cute.” Keith laughs, breathless, while his ribcage protests the crushing force placed on him.

The laugh turns into a groan when Shiro dips his mouth, fast as a snake, and sinks his teeth into the skin just below Keith’s ear. It’s going to leave a mark, but instead of resisting, Keith finds himself tilting his head to offer better access while his brain questions his life choices. He’s in a bathroom in a Galra fort, sandwiched between Shiro’s body and the wall, with his feet dangling above the floor and getting his neck marked like a horny teenager.

Not exactly how he pictured this coalition visit beforehand, but he’s not complaining.

Shiro pulls back to examine his handiwork. He looks pleased with himself, and judging by the residual soreness lingering on Keith’s neck, the bruise is going to be considerable. Which means Keith needs to wear his hair down or a lot of turtlenecks in the coming quintants. Fantastic.

For a moment, they stare at each other with their noses nearly touching, ragged breaths falling from their lips. Shiro’s pupils are blown wide like before, but he seems calmer, less urgent after leaving his mark. Like he needed to stake a claim or something. Keith reaches out, trailing a finger over the scar slicing across Shiro’s nose, over the Galra marking on his left cheekbone and circling around his ear, mapping the unfamiliar territory and committing it to memory.

Shiro inhales like he’s about to say something, but he’s interrupted by the rattling of the bathroom door. Someone is repeatedly—urgently—pushing the button outside to slide the door open, and when that fails they start tugging at the door to open it manually.

They both turn to look, and Shiro’s grip loosens, causing Keith to slide a few inches down the wall.

“Open up, we have a situation out here,” Pidge’s voice calls.

Shiro sets Keith down on the floor, and he stands there awkwardly for a span of few ticks, aware that his hair is probably fucked from here to Mars and his mouth is obscenely red. Not to mention the huge hickey on his neck. However, Pidge sounds alarmed, so he ignores his mussed-up look and flips the lock open.

As soon as the door slides open, in bursts Lance, his face an interesting shade of green that Keith wasn’t aware was possible to achieve with Lance’s complexion. Lance rushes over to the nearest stall and slams the door open. There is a thud of knees hitting the floor, followed by sounds of him violently upheaving the contents of his stomach into the toilet.

Pidge and Hunk follow Lance into the bathroom but stop at the stall door, cringing.

“Charming,” Pidge says, holding the bridge of her nose.

“I can’t watch, it’s making me sick too,” Hunk mutters, turning away from the stall. “But at least we know why we should avoid the purple punch now.”

“Is he going to be okay?” Keith asks. He walks over and peeks into the stall. “Lance?”

Lance’s head is buried in the toilet bowl and he’s still retching, but he gives Keith a one-handed thumbs-up without looking up. Looks like he might live.

“I think he’s gonna be fine after he gets it out of his system. I know that usually does it for me,” Hunk says, looking in the opposite direction. He’s the resident expert on puking so Keith trusts his assessment of the situation.

“Speaking of okay, are _you_ going to be okay? It looks like you encountered, uh, a pack of very hungry vampires.” Pidge’s eyes are glued to Keith’s neck and she has a teasing grin on her face. She raises her eyebrows and glances over to the door, where Shiro stands with his ears flopped down. He’s smoothing his hair and clearly trying to look like he’s not there, which isn’t very successful considering his size. His cheeks look darker than the rest of his face.

Keith slams a hand over the sore spot on his neck. “Shut up.”

“Or maybe just one really big vampire?” Pidge continues, tapping her chin thoughtfully. “The jury’s still out on that.”

“I said _shut up_.”

Hunk’s eyes move up, measuring Shiro from his feet to the white hair at the crown of his head sticking in every direction. “Whoa.”

Keith sees the exact moment when Hunk makes the connection between Keith’s bruised neck, Shiro’s size and the logistics of certain acts that may be size-sensitive. Hunk’s eyes widen, but before he can say anything, Keith steps closer and points a finger at his face. “Not a word.”

“But—”

“Nope. Nuh-uh. Zip it.” Keith’s pointing finger moves to Pidge, who looks at him with a shit-eating grin on her face. “We’re going, you look after Mr. Purple Punch. I’ll see you later.”

Pidge’s expression says that there are many, _many_ words she’s trying to keep behind her lips and it looks like the physical strain of it is going to give her an aneurysm. “Later,” she manages in a strained voice that sounds like a giggle.

Keith steps out of the bathroom, followed by Shiro. The door slides shut after them, and the last thing Keith hears is Pidge’s muttered, “Hope you brought enough lube.” It’s followed by more puking noises from Lance and an exasperated groan from Hunk.

Keith drags a hand over his face, and then looks up to scour Shiro’s reaction to meeting the team. The deepening blush that paints Shiro’s face in various shades of violet might just be worth the endless mockery Keith has set himself up for.

They start down the hallway with the intention of disappearing. At least that’s Keith’s intention, and Shiro seems content to follow him wherever he’s going. Just when Keith thinks they’re out of the danger zone, Allura pokes her head out of the conference room.

“Is Lance going to be—Keith, what the quiznak—what happened to your—” Her eyes slide over Keith’s shoulder and land on Shiro, whose shade of purple is starting to look unhealthy at this point. “You have got to be _kidding_ me,” she hisses, stepping out of the room and closing the door after her. “We’re in the middle of peace negotiations, and you run off to—to _this_?” She gestures wildly between Keith’s neck and Shiro.

Keith grimaces. It is nearing seven in the morning, local time, and he he’s space-lagged and hasn’t slept in god knows how many vargas. He’s in no mood for lectures, especially when it’s over something he himself hasn’t fully grasped. The order of business, at least in Keith’s mind, is to talk to Shiro first, figure out what the fuck is going on with him anyway, get some sleep and then maybe, _possibly_ tolerate a lecture from Allura.

Keith glances at Shiro conspiratorially from the corner of his eye. “Shiro, how fast can you run while carrying something, uh, about my size?”

 

-

 

Turns out the answer is _fast enough to shake off any attempt Allura may have made at following them._ Keith suspects she didn’t really try; perhaps she thought at least one of the Voltron Paladins should be present at the peace negotiations. Allura is way better at diplomacy anyway, so it’s best she stays to oversee the meeting.

Having Shiro hoist him over one shoulder and take off down the corridor may have been childish, as evidenced by Allura’s unimpressed expression when Keith saluted her over Shiro’s shoulder. Right now, Keith doesn’t care about childishness, or indignity of being carried like a trophy, or anything else aside from Shiro’s strong arm around his thighs. He feels carefree and joyous like he hasn’t felt in a long while. Bringing peace to the universe is tiring work; sometimes he wants to feel like he can sneak away from it all, even if it’s just for short stolen moments.

When it becomes clear no one is coming after them, Shiro slows down to a walk and finally lets Keith slide to the floor in a narrow hallway that looks like a maintenance tunnel. Shiro’s head nearly touches the ceiling and he has to dodge the lamps lighting their way. He should, by all laws of physics and fairness, be sweaty and out of breath after dragging Keith’s ass this far, but physics and fairness don’t seem to be on Keith’s side since Shiro looks flawless.

Keith leans on the wall, eyeing Shiro curiously. “I can sneak away easy enough, but are they going to miss you at the negotiations?” He still doesn’t know what Shiro’s role here is, officially _or_ undercover.

Shiro snorts. “Probably not.” He slides down the wall until he’s crouched beside Keith, their faces almost level. “They mostly use me for my size.” He smirks at the opposite wall. “It’s an intimidation tactic. Works pretty well with the way Galra usually handle things.”

It’s understandable, because anyone wanting to cause trouble might reconsider after seeing Shiro. Keith casts a measuring glance at Shiro’s thigh, and it’s easily thicker than his own waist. Hell, even Shiro’s _arm_ might be larger than his waist circumference.

Shiro reaches out and touches the sore spot below Keith’s ear, finger trailing over the bitemark. It’s a possessive gesture, and an intimate one. Keith usually isn’t one for easy intimacy, but he doesn’t mind Shiro touching him. He might even go as far as to say he welcomes it.

He racks his brain for any bits of information he can recall about the Galra mating practices. They rely more on hormones than humans do, seeking pheromone-compatibility as well as physical attraction—both of which seem to play a role in his interactions with Shiro. He also vaguely remembers hearing something about a _knot_. Down there. He avoids looking at Shiro’s crotch, but his cheeks heat up.

Shiro’s fingers keep tracing patterns on his neck, lazy and unhurried. On occasion he slides his hand to the nape of Keith’s neck, rubbing the inside of his wrist there. It’s probably one of those scenting things. Keith’s cursed human genes won’t let him smell anything out of the ordinary, but he feels the effects in his body. He grows lax and pliant under the touch, leaning into Shiro's hand.

In small movements they shift closer to one another, and Keith ends up against Shiro’s side with Shiro’s arm wrapped around his waist and his nose nuzzling the crook of his neck. The touch is comforting, but also charged with anticipation, which is a strange combination to experience.

Keith inhales, closing his eyes. First making out in the bathroom, then cuddling in a maintenance tunnel. What’s next?

Shiro mouths at his ear, lips soft and teasing. “Wanna go somewhere else?” he asks, like he’s reading Keith’s mind.

Keith gasps when teeth bite down on his earlobe. “Like where?”

“Like to my quarters down the hall, where I have all kinds of luxuries. For example, a bed.”

“I like the sound of that.” Keith is not sure if he’s more excited about the opportunity to sleep or the opportunity to find out about the knot first-hand.

 

-

 

His body decides the matter for him, because he drifts toward sleep as soon as he hits the mattress in Shiro’s room, at eight in the morning, local time. What a fucking night it has been.

Through the haze of approaching unconsciousness, he feels Shiro’s hand stroking his hair. The touch feels more like comfort and less like the tingle of electric anticipation from before.  Then Shiro’s broad chest presses against his back and a strong, protective arm wraps around him. Closeness of this level shouldn’t exist based on the length of their acquaintance, but Keith leans into it, falling asleep against the furnace of Shiro’s body heat.

He startles awake when a notification beeps from his wrist comm a few vargas later. He yawns, dismissing the beeping, and settles more comfortably under the blankets. The fate of the universe may be at stake, but unless there’s a hostile fleet above them right now, the universe can wait for a few more vargas.

He cranes his neck so he can look at Shiro’s face, relaxed in deep sleep. Shiro lies on his side, face half-buried in pillows, and every few ticks his ear twitches. The mop of white hair falls over his forehead in a mess of tangles. He looks a lot less dangerous and more adorable sleeping like this. Keith has to fight an urge to pet him.

By any level of rational thinking, this kind of intimacy should be unnerving; Keith should not be so at ease near someone he’s barely known for a quintant, especially considering the questionable circumstances of their meeting. But everything about this—the closeness, the sparks flying between them, the comfort—feels like it’s moving along a natural continuum.

It’s like Shiro said: they _match_. They are drawn together, and Keith feels at ease—like he’s is exactly where he’s supposed to be. He leans in, sniffing the air, and curses the fact that he can’t smell Shiro like Shiro obviously can smell him. Stupid human genes and stupid human nose.

He traces a finger along the metal of Shiro’s right arm, the purple lines glowing faint in the artificial light of the room.

When he looks up again, Shiro’s eyes are open. Keith startles and pulls his hand back. Of course; Shiro gets sensory input from the arm, which means Shiro felt the exploring slide of his finger. He doesn’t seem to mind, though, as he reaches out to pull Keith closer. Keith settles against Shiro’s chest, listening as the low rumble of purring reemerges, resonating deep in Shiro’s throat.

The tight closeness reignites the spark of anticipation in Keith’s stomach, and a tingling sensation travels to his extremities when Shiro’s metal palm slides down his back and settles right above his ass. Shiro noses his hair and inhales deep.

“Mmm. You smell so good,” Shiro mutters, raspy and sleep-thick. The roughness of his voice does _things_ to Keith. It sends shivers down his spine, a rush of blood to his cheeks, and then another rush of blood to his dick. Shiro easily manipulates him so they’re face to face, guiding Keith’s mouth to his by a firm hand at the nape of his neck.

The first kiss is slow and explorative, with languid edges of sleep lingering in it.

The second kiss is deeper and rougher, breath catching harshly in their throats.

The third kiss is all tongue and teeth, pupils blown wide and fierce hands grasping at whatever they can find. Shiro is everywhere, hot and heavy, and his muscles ripple under Keith’s fingertips while their mouths continue moving against each other. Then Shiro grinds his hips up and reduces Keith to a whimpering mess.

_Holy quiznak._

Shiro’s cock strains the seams of his pants, rubbing against Keith’s leg, and he is fucking _huge_. Of course Keith could have guessed that, because everything about Shiro is huge, but the monstrosity twitching against his leg is almost excessively big.

So big that there’s a real possibility it’s not going to fit. Keith tries to assess the length and girth from tactile cues, but really he just wants to dive below Shiro’s navel to take measurements. With his mouth. Although, judging by what he can feel, it might not fit in his mouth either.

Well, Keith has never been one to back away from a challenge. He sneaks his palm against Shiro’s chest— _ooh,_ _nice pecs_ —and pushes, creating a distance between them so he can take a look down. Shiro growls when their mouths detach, lips slick and raw from kissing, but Keith slips a hand over his mouth, shushing. He needs to _see_ what he’s working with.

Shiro goes silent, mouthing Keith’s palm while Keith cranes his neck to look down.

 _Whoa_. Keith sucks in a breath and his cheeks feel hot like he has a fever. His cock pulses, mirroring his stupefied excitement. Through the fabric of Shiro’s pants, the outline of his cock bulges out, giving Keith an impression that his initial guess about the fit might indeed be correct.

Instead of discouraging him, the size only makes him more determined.

As he makes a move to put his hand on the waistband and pull Shiro’s pants down, he’s stopped by Shiro’s hand on his wrist.

“Keith, wait,” Shiro says, muffled against his palm.

Keith looks up, baffled, and pulls his palm away from Shiro’s mouth. “What?”

“There are a few things we should maybe talk about before getting to… _that_.” Shiro nods downward.

Keith raises his eyebrows, trying to pry his hand free from Shiro’s grasp. “Why?”

In his opinion, they can talk later, because right now there’s cock to be had.

Shiro laughs, soft at the back of his throat, and the squeeze of his fingers around Keith’s wrist grows tighter. “That’s the hormones talking.”

Keith grimaces. _Guess I said that out loud, then._

Shiro takes Keith’s face between his hands and kisses him. Keith falls lax under his touch, melts into it. “Remember what we talked about earlier in your Lion?” Shiro mutters against his mouth.

“Mhmm.” Right now Keith has a hard time remembering their current topic of discussion, let alone an older one, but he makes a valiant attempt at nodding against Shiro’s mouth, convincing absolutely no one. To distract from that, he sucks Shiro’s lower lip into his mouth and bites.

Shiro groans, then pulls back from Keith’s biting teeth to aim a stern look at him. “I don’t… ogle guys coming my way like you accused. I have been looking for a suitable mate. Someone who matches with me.”

“A mate?” The word rings a bell; he’s heard it in passing from someone talking about the Galra mating practices.

Shiro shifts one hand to stroke Keith’s hair out of his face. “Yeah, I don’t really feel the need to fool around with random people. I… tried that for a bit and it didn’t really work out, so I—well, I’d rather fool around with my bonded mate.”

Keith knows about those bonds; they’re kind of a big deal. The thought sobers him up from his haze. He stares at Shiro, and it takes a moment to sink in that this massive, tough-looking Galra with the biggest dick Keith has ever encountered is actually a hopeless romantic sap in disguise.

Then another thought clicks, like lightning striking down his spine.

“Wait—you want _me_ to be your bonded mate?”

The rough pad of Shiro’s thumb caresses the corner of his mouth. “Yes.” His voice is low, raspy. _Needy_.

Keith exhales shakily and his fingers dig involuntarily into Shiro’s shoulder. “But we’ve just met.”

“I don’t care. I told you we’d be good together, we _match_.”

Keith frowns. “But what if—” _What if you find you don’t like me after a few weeks, what if we’re nothing alike after the hormones wear off, what if—_

He inhales and tries a different approach. “What does that entail? The bond?”

Shiro’s eyes flash, and the thumb tracing Keith’s features pauses on his cheekbone. “As long as we’re bonded, we don’t give ourselves to anyone else. You’re mine and I’m yours.”

So it’s like a marriage by pheromones. The thought should probably freak him out, because a small voice at the back of his head reminds him that he’s known this guy for one quintant, if even that. But it doesn’t. Instead, a warmth spreads out from inside his ribcage, all the way down to the pit of his stomach. The thought of claiming this gigantic Galra as _his_ makes his blood boil with needs he didn’t even know existed.

The reaction is irrational, but Keith looks at Shiro and he _wants_. Wants Shiro in him, wants Shiro as his. Shiro’s pupils are impossibly wide, mirroring Keith’s lust. Keith locks his eyes with Shiro’s and whispers, “Yeah.”

Shiro’s thumb moves over to the spot where his teeth left a mark earlier. “I’d also like to mark you.” His eyes gleam, possessive, as he traces the bruise below Keith’s ear.

The pressure on the tender spot causes shivers to travel down like ripples under Keith’s skin.  “Didn’t you already?”

“It’s going to be more permanent this time. If you agree.”

The notion of having Shiro mark him as his own sends a shudder through Keith’s body. He’s never felt any inclination to be possessed, claimed, owned, but now he finds he likes the idea. He wants Shiro under his skin, like a permanent reminder whenever he looks in the mirror.

Blood rushes in his ears like loud thunder, and Keith nods, breathless. “Yeah. I want it.”

Shiro seems to like that because he groans and grinds hard against Keith’s leg. He leans in to kiss Keith’s lips, then his cheek and finally his neck at the chosen spot. Keith’s cock pulses, and he moves helplessly against Shiro, waiting for the bite.

Shiro teases the sensitive skin below his ear with his tongue and lips. Keith squirms under the touch, and his breath hitches when Shiro’s hand slides between them, tugging the waistband of his pants out of the way.

Shiro wraps his fingers around Keith’s cock and strokes up, then down, and on the downward movement his teeth sink into the skin on Keith’s neck. The dual input of pain and pleasure is like an explosion in his brain. Shiro sinks his teeth deeper, and Keith gasps, the focus of his attention alternating between the sting on his neck and the weight of Shiro’s hand around his cock. Shiro moves his hand, and the mixed signals quickly turn into a whiteout orgasm that sweeps through Keith’s body and rips a loud groan from his throat.

Shiro works his hand until Keith falls limp, then detaches from his neck and comes back to his mouth. He kisses Keith, long and sweet, although the tenderness is contradicted by the hint of blood mixed into the kiss. It should be gross, but for some reason it isn’t.

Shiro pulls back and looks at Keith like he just won the intergalactic lottery. Keith smiles, sated and comfortable.

Then Shiro has the audacity to bring his hand up from between them and lick his fingers clean.

Keith feels like the room is deprived of oxygen as he watches Shiro sucking his come off of his fingers. Shiro makes obscene slurping noises and his eyes never leave Keith’s.

Keith swallows, throat dry, and his cock announces it’s ready for round two. Just like that, from looking at Shiro sucking a finger into his mouth, he’s hard again.

Maybe the Galra hormones aren’t that bad after all.

“Holy hell,” Keith breathes. Instead of going away after an orgasm like usual, the want and need only intensify, until his entire being vibrates with the urge to be connected to Shiro.

Shiro pulls him close and purrs. “Told you we’d be good together.”

Keith settles against him and moves so he can feel Shiro’s cock pressing into his thigh. “Hope you have some lubricant,” he says, reaching out to pet Shiro’s ear.

Shiro stills. “I don’t think we can do that now.”

Keith pouts. “Why not?” He slides his hand down and gives the head of Shiro’s cock a squeeze through his pants.

Shiro lets out a broken groan and mutters a string of Galra curses that imply he thinks Keith is the devil himself.

Keith is fine with the allegation, if it means he gets what he wants.

“Don’t tempt me.” Shiro’s breath falls hot against his cheek, teeth grazing skin. He pulls back and shakes his head as if trying to regain his wits. “One of us has to be the sensible one here.”

_Boring._

“Why?” Keith asks, leaning in to catch Shiro’s jawline with his teeth. “I thought that this was the idea of the whole bonded mates thing. So we can—how did you put it— _fool around_?”

“We will… eventually.” Shiro smooths his metal hand down the curve of Keith’s spine, stopping just short of his ass. Keith decides he’s a tease.

“Why not now?” Keith licks his way up the sharp curve of Shiro’s jawline toward his ear.

Shiro moans. “You’re insufferable.” He pushes Keith away by the shoulder.

Keith whines and struggles against the hold, but Shiro holds him back easily.

Shiro looks at him, and his eyes betray how much he wants the same thing as Keith does. “I’m thinking of you, here. The coalition leaves before sunset, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

“I imagine sitting in your Lion for several vargas isn’t going to be very comfortable if I stick my cock in you now. I _want_ to, so much. But I also want you to be comfortable. That’s is the only thing stopping me from ripping your clothes to shreds and fucking you right here.”

Keith whines again at the thought of his clothes being ripped off. “It’ll be fine, c’mon.”

Shiro’s iron grip holds him at an arm’s length. “Patience yields focus.”

“Cool proverb, can we get to fucking now?”

Shiro huffs out an exasperated laugh. “Trust me, I’d like that. But we can’t, not right now.” He allows Keith to struggle closer and breathes into his ear, harsh. “Next time, I promise.”

Keith lets out a suffering groan. He feels like he’s going to explode if he doesn’t get to feel Shiro in him, like a drought is slowly killing him and Shiro is the oasis to quench his thirst. Through the hormone-induced haze he’s indistinctly aware that he’s going through some kind of a melodramatic fever dream, but that’s irrelevant and doesn’t make the need disappear.

“ _Please_.” The sole word comes out broken and needy.

Shiro closes his eyes and groans, shaking his head like he’s fighting against his own urges as much as against Keith’s. “No. It’s not a good idea—”

“I can take it,” Keith says stubbornly. “I’ve had a fist up there before. Although, uh, human-sized.”

That stops Shiro’s protests for a tick. He narrows his eyes at Keith and growls, low and possessive. “Whose fist?” He sounds ready to journey to the end of the universe to punch the one who dared to stick so much as a finger in his mate.

Keith lets him wallow in it for a few ticks, then smiles slyly. “My own.”

Shiro groans, pulling Keith’s head into the crook of his neck, hips bucking up to meet Keith’s leg. “You have to show me some time,” he breathes into Keith’s hair. “Not now, though.”

Keith bats his lashes. “Will you at least let me get lockjaw or something? That doesn’t interfere with sitting.”

“You _fiend_.” Shiro’s displeased tone is betrayed by the violent jerk of his cock.

Keith pulls back to look at him mischievously. “Is that a yes?” He licks his lips with deliberate slowness, enjoying the way Shiro’s eyes glaze over at the sight.

Keith wiggles his way out of Shiro’s arms and begins his exploration by pushing Shiro on his back. Shiro allows himself to be manipulated, watching Keith with dark eyes. Keith kneels beside him on the bed, stretches the neckline of Shiro’s shirt as far down as it goes and licks a stripe between his pecs. He then pulls the neckline a bit to the left and bites down. Shiro shudders and moans as Keith sucks a mark on his pec. He moves farther down and pulls the shirt hem up to expose a set of perfect abs, marked by a few scars slashed across the skin.

Keith pauses, watching Shiro as he lies sprawled on the bed with his shirt pushed up to his armpits and breathing heavily. He is forever indebted to whoever sent him this divine gift.

Keith licks down from the tip of the sternum until he encounters the head of Shiro’s cock, straining the fabric of his already tight pants. There’s a dark stain of precum on the fabric.

Keith slides a finger over the stain, earning him a muffled gasp from above. When he’s done teasing, he pushes the waistband down and curses low under his breath. Up close, Shiro’s cock is even more impressive. It’s big and purple, and Keith needs both hands to make his fingers meet around the circumference. He works his hands over the length once, watching how the thick vein on the underside pulses. A clear drop of precum beads at the tip, and Keith bends to lick it off.

Above him, Shiro groans, and his cock twitches in Keith’s grip. It’s kind of like holding a wild animal in his hands, alive and writhing. Keith glances up and finds Shiro staring at him with half-lidded eyes, pupils blown and a dark purple blush spreading on his cheeks. He has a hand in his hair, and his mouth is cracked open.

He looks thoroughly wrecked, and Keith hasn’t even started yet.

_This is going to be fun._

Keith smirks and twirls his tongue around the cockhead, estimating if he can open his mouth big enough to take it in.

Getting lockjaw is so worth it, although explaining _how_ he got it might get interesting.

He works the length with his hands while he licks and sucks on the head, stretching his jaw to its limits. The muscles in Shiro’s thighs pull tighter and tighter, and when Keith glances up he’s staring at the ceiling with his mouth opened to a soundless moan.

He looks so fucking good.

Keith relaxes his jaw and finally, _finally_ , is able to take the head in. It hits the back of his throat almost immediately, making him gag, and Shiro gasps out a choking sound and mutters something about having died and gone to the great beyond.

Holding the head in his mouth is difficult for his jaw, but Keith manages to suck it in a small back-and-forth movement while his hands do most of the work along the length. Little by little he’s able to take more, even though it makes his jaw hurt like a bitch. The little gasps and noises Shiro makes are worth the ache, and if Keith could, he would smile smugly at the way Shiro’s hands grasp at the sheets in reckless abandon.

Shiro’s thighs start to tremble, and his abs ripple along with heaving gasps. “Keith,” he grunts, his body pulling taut like a bowstring. “ _Keith_ —”

It sounds like a warning.

The first spurt of warmth hits the back of his throat, and Keith chokes, eyes watering. He pulls back, and the second spills on his tongue and lips, coating them with salty droplets, and the last remains of Shiro’s come catch his chin, some landing on his neck.

Keith sits back on his heels, coughing, when Shiro’s hands appear and tug him upward on the bed.

Shiro dabs Keith’s face clean with the corner of a blanket and then kisses him so hard that Keith chokes again.

“So good,” Shiro mutters in between kisses. “You’re so good.”

He continues whispering words of praise as he picks Keith up from the bed and carries him into the bathroom. Keith catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror as they walk past it, and he looks so thoroughly fucked that Pidge is going to rupture that aneurysm if he walks back to the Lions looking like this. His hair is a sexed-up mess, the bite on his neck is crusted over with dried blood and there’s traces of come on his face.

So all things considered, it’s good that Shiro has a shower planned.

Shiro pushes him into the shower and crowds him against the wall. Keith squeals when his back hits the cold wall, but the sound turns into a groan when Shiro hoists him up into his arms and guides the spray of water on their entwined bodies.

Keith’s cock is trapped between them, and he ruts gracelessly against Shiro’s stomach while Shiro tries to wash his hair.

Shiro stops his washing efforts and brings his mouth to Keith’s, kissing him deep.

“Needy,” Shiro comments, and then Keith squeals again when he’s pushed up against the wall.

Shiro holds him at shoulder level. “Put your legs over my shoulders,” he instructs.

Keith hooks his knees on either side of Shiro’s head, then has to slam his head back against the tiles when Shiro pushes him into the wall and swallows his cock into his mouth. It’s the strangest position he’s ever gotten a blowjob in, but it’s good. So, _so_ good.

Keith crosses his ankles behind Shiro’s head as Shiro continues sucking him. He gives Shiro’s neck a squeeze with his thighs, choking him a bit, but Shiro seems to like that because he groans around Keith’s cock. Shiro’s fingers sneak up, kneading Keith’s ass cheeks.

Keith _howls_ when Shiro swallows him whole, nose pushing into his abdomen. Keith’s hands reach to grab at whatever they can find. He finds tufts of hair, he finds Shiro’s ears, he doesn’t care what he’s grabbing because he’s fucking dying from how good Shiro’s mouth feels on him. Shiro slips a finger between his ass cheeks, teasing his hole, and Keith nearly smacks himself unconscious throwing his head back against the wall.

When Keith comes it’s a soundless explosion without a warning. His mouth falls open, his eyes roll back and his hips jerk into Shiro’s mouth like he’s getting the life sucked out of him.

It definitely feels like he’s getting the life sucked out of him.

When Keith slumps forward against the crown of Shiro’s head, his head is spinning and his muscles refuse to cooperate. Shiro pulls away from his cock and swallows, sliding him down to the floor. He has to hold Keith upright while they finally get to washing, and he laughs at Keith’s wobbly legs when they get out of the shower.

Keith feels too spent to even glare at him properly.

“I can carry you back to bed,” Shiro suggests.

 _Dignity_ , Keith sighs to himself as he allows himself to be tossed over Shiro’s shoulder like a ragdoll. _I used to have dignity._

They stay in Shiro’s bed until Keith can’t ignore the messages and calls popping up on his comm anymore.

“Duty calls,” he mutters, sighing. “Allura says the negotiations are almost over and we’re leaving in about a varga. I have to get back to the hangar.”

Shiro doesn’t say anything, but he pulls Keith into a lingering kiss. The easy displays of affection feel natural at this point, which is still weird to Keith because he doesn’t usually deal well with affection. With Shiro it’s different. Everything is different now. He came to this planet for the coalition peace negotiations, and now he’s leaving with a bondmark on his neck.

Leaving Shiro’s quarters feels like stepping back from another dimension. Shiro walks him back to the corridor leading to the Lions and kisses him where two hallways cross paths. He has somewhere he needs to be as well, but Keith doesn’t know if it’s his Blade mission or something else he’s in a hurry to take care of.

“When can I see you again?” Keith asks.

Shiro traces his thumb over the sore bitemark on his neck. “Soon. I promise.”

 

-

 

Pidge is the devil incarnate. Upon seeing Keith, she laughs so much that she drops her water bottle on Lance’s leg.

Lance is lying on the floor, and he lifts the arm he’s holding over his face. “ _Ow_ ,” he mumbles laconically. He still looks a bit green.

“Uh, Keith?” Hunk’s eyebrows climb almost up to his hairline when he spots the mark on Keith’s neck. “You sure you don’t need something, like a bandaid, a gauze—”

“A rabies vaccine or a tetanus shot?” Pidge suggests innocently.

“Fuck you both,” Keith mutters. “Can we get to the Lion check-ups now?”

Pidge grins. “Yeah, well _you_ look thoroughly, uh, checked up already, so I guess it’s Black’s turn.”

Pidge is the devil incarnate and no one can convince Keith otherwise.

 

-

 

Shiro appears in the hangar as they’re preparing for departure. It’s uncanny how he can move so quietly. Keith stands by his Lion and glances down to his tablet for a second. When he looks back up, Shiro is there, leaning on the wall nearby, arms folded all casual like he’s _not_ planning something.

Shiro winks when their eyes meet. “So. My mission here is officially over. Apparently peace on this planet, combined with the fact that someone here knows who I am and sent an assassin after me is enough for the Blades to call it quits.”

Keith walks over to him and looks up. “Mm, and now what, back to headquarters and then onto the next mission?”

“That depends,” Shiro says. “What’s the next planet on your peace agenda?” His eyes flit over to the bitemark on Keith’s neck, on proud display for everyone to see. He even tied his hair back to a ponytail.

Keith reaches up to scratch Shiro’s ear, enjoying the way he leans into the touch. “If I tell you, am I going to find you there waiting for me?”

Shiro’s eyes flash, hot and dangerous, and he leans in to press his lips against Keith’s ear. “Maybe.”

Keith tilts his face away so he can pull up the star coordinates on his tablet. It’s difficult to concentrate while Shiro mouths at his ear, but in the end he manages to send them to Shiro’s comm. “I’ll see you there.”

Shiro bites his earlobe gently. “Not if I see you first, because the first thing I’m going to do is blindfold you and fuck you until you can’t walk.”

Breath catches in Keith’s throat. “That a promise?”

“That’s a promise.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!  
> So, in case anyone’s interested, Shiro’s promise about fucking blindfolded Keith is me offering a possible sequel. Any takers?  
>  **//edit:** A sequel is in the works, and I made this fic the first part of a series, so if you want to be notified when the sequel is posted you can subscribe to the series :)  
> -  
> Find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/ofcopperwings), [pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.io/copperwings) or [tumblr](https://worldofcopperwings.tumblr.com/).  
> -  
> Thanks to my lovely beta [thoughtsappear](https://thoughtsappear.tumblr.com/).


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